


The Lady and the Fuckboy

by ClassicRockInTheTardis



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien is a sweetheart, Adrien is a tourist, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Retail, Apologies, Except Marinette gets a bf out of it, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy Ending, Fuckboy (not really) Adrien, Marinette Dupain-Cheng Is So Done, Marinette curses, Marinette works retail, Marinette-centric, May or may not be based on my actual job, Misunderstandings, She deserves to tho, Shop girl Marinette, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12270798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicRockInTheTardis/pseuds/ClassicRockInTheTardis
Summary: Marinette hates her retail job. She's at the end of her shift and at the end of her line when a complete fuckboy pushes her over the edge.The fuckboy didn't mean to be a fuckboy.Somehow it still works out, through the magic of apologies and monkey bread.





	The Lady and the Fuckboy

**Author's Note:**

> I hate myself for writing up this instead of my Tangled AU Victuuri fic but here we are, me wanting to get rid of my full composition book and finding this still in the pages and untyped. As always, tell me if I need to tag this differently and point out grammar mistakes. Love you all!

Marinette’s patience for the day had run out.

She was at the end of her ninth 8-hour, 4-close (generally midnight or later) shift in a row at the Lucky Find Boutique and had another day before she finally got a blessed day off. She’d had to deal with annoying customers all day long, one of which had even called her a “fucking bitch” because certain children’s T-shirts were $12.99 instead of the sale price of $9.09. Because Marinette clearly was the one who controlled the prices at the T-shirt/gift shop she worked in on the boardwalk. 

Normally when Marinette told people she worked on the boardwalk in her beach town, people would go on and on about how lucky she was or what a fun job that must be. If it was a customer, she’d smile and try not to scream. If it was anyone else, she’d tell them exactly how much “fun” it was to work with an open storefront in the middle of high summer in a tourist town. Especially for someone like Marinette who lived locally year round and was practically raised to hate tourists, even if they were her and her family’s livelihood. Marinette wanted to scream that no, renting the same house every year for a week in the summer does not mean you are a local, that no, she hardly ever saw the sand or the ocean, that no, it was not a good thing that it was almost the weekend, that no, she did not get to feel the ocean breeze, only the heat and humidity. 

But by far the worst part of working retail in a tourism-based economy was the people. Classic middle aged, screaming white moms were problems at every retail job, along with the “do you work here?” when you clearly are wearing a store uniform, complaining about prices the workers had no control over, customers trying to return items that clearly did not come from that store, and of course, the age old “if it doesn’t scan, it must be free!” joke. But Marinette also had to deal with the bleached blonde, perfectly tanned girls in bikinis and too much makeup buying cheap, five-dollar bracelets with their daddies’ credit cards. The dads in question would then come in and buy a $15 T-shirt with a $100 bill they pulled from a wad of cash the size of Marinette’s fist. Old women with sun crisped skin and more wrinkles than a raisin wearing foundation three shades too dark would try on a shirt, get said foundation on the collar when taking it off, and then refuse to pay for the now ruined item. Parents would let their kids run around the tables, shooting each other (and Marinette) with Nerf guns, and instead of reprimanding them, would simply laugh. And the sand, oh the sand. Marinette had to get out the carpet broom at least ten times a shift to clean up clumps of sand dropped from shoes and god only knows what else. (She once found a pair of swimming trunks in the changing room covered in sand, and did not want to know how it got there). 

So by the time her manager told her to start vacuuming the store, Marinette almost started crying from relief. As soon as she finished, they’d close the storefront, which meant she could go home and pass the fuck out before waking up to do it all over again. 

She vacuumed from back to front, letting most of the customers slowly trickle out as they realized the store was closing soon, picking up dirt, sand, thread, dust, sprinkles, lint, and who knows what else, with Marinette pausing once in a while to pick up garbage that littered the store after hundreds had used the floor as their own personal trash can. 

Once in a while, a straggling customer would ask her for help with something while she was vacuuming. Normally, it was something small, like getting a jacket down from the top row or asking where the checkout was. 

This time was different.

Marinette had reached the front of the store and only had one aisle left to vacuum when,

“Excuse me?”

Marinette sighed, turning the vacuum off and pushing a few strands of sweaty hair that had escaped her limp pigtails back behind her ears. She groaned internally when she saw the boy who had called to her before turning on her extremely-fake-I-hate-myself-when-I-talk-like-this customer service voice.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

The boy was a classic teenage ocean-town tourist. Good looking, what with bright green eyes, flawless skin that he probably had a two hour cleaning regiment for, and blonde hair that was styled with more hair product than Marinette had used in her entire life. Designer clothes, of course. Marinette recognized them from the newest Agreste line she herself had spent hours pouring over, critiquing and drawing inspiration from for her own designs. Probably had a trust fund worth more than her parents’ bakery had ever taken in. Definitely either had a credit card or a few crisp $100s in his pocket, all of which he didn’t earn, some of which he spent at Vineyard Vines.

In other words, your typical beach town fuckboy. 

“Is that real?” he asked.

“Is what real?” Marinette asked, trying to keep her customer smile on and not slap someone, preferably the boy, if no other options, herself. She only heard that question about 50 times a day about the (real) dead sharks in a bottle they sold, but the boy was still standing outside the store and couldn’t possibly see them from this angle.

“The vacuum. Is it real? Is it for sale?”

Marinette blinked, not believing that this was actually happening to her, that the universe had actually given her this bullshit to deal with when she was so close to freedom. Meanwhile, the fuckboy had continued asking questions, all of which were idiotic, most of which Marinette tuned out while she saw red, some of which the fuckboy had to visibly fight a smile. He was still standing a few feet outside the store, not having bothered actually coming up to Marinette. Marinette didn’t even bother weighing her options; it was clear he wasn’t a customer, wasn’t going to be a customer, and probably would never be a customer here.

So Marinette exploded.

“Look, I am at the end of my ninth 8-hour shift, I have another day to go, I’ve been here since four and it’s almost a quarter past midnight. I’m fucking exhausted, I’ve been standing without a rest since six, I’ve had a woman scream at me that I’m a fucking bitch over less than $4, and I started my period, which I shouldn’t even get on my current birth control. There’s dollar monkey bread and pizza literally a store over but I can’t get any cause they’re both closed by the time I get off. All I want is to shove a shit ton of fried food in my mouth and pass the fuck out but instead I’m having to deal with bullshit from people like you, who think it’s fun to fuck with the shop girl even though you’ve never worked a day in your life. And here you are, with more money from your daddy in your pocket than I’ll make in a week, despite working over 40 hours. But sure, go ahead, have your laugh, I’m sure this is a great story that you and all your fuckboy friends who I can see trying to hide just outside of my view will tell for years, the great story of how you fucked with the retail girl who dealt with abuse all fucking day when all she wanted was some fucking monkey bread and maybe a nap!”

The boy stepped away, stammering apologizes as Marinette fumed. 

“I…I’m sorry. I’m very sorry,” he said quickly, before whirling on his heel and running away. 

“Yeah, you fucking are,” Marinette whispered under her breath, before finishing vacuuming and proceeding to close up the store. 

She was just closing the garage door, the metal slats halfway down, when she heard someone yell, “Wait!”

The same blonde fuckboy from before came running up, something held in his hands. Before Marinette could process what was happening, he shoved what he was holding into her hands, giving one more quick little, “Sorry!” before running away again. 

It was a plastic take out container, with a few different types of monkey bread inside, along with a note. Marinette stared at the gift for a few seconds, mouth open in a small “O” shape, before shaking herself out of her stupor, remembering she was still on the clock and had only halfway closed the door. Marinette set it aside, closing the garage door the rest of the way, before clocking out and hauling her aching feet into the driver’s seat of her car. 

She let out an exhausted sigh, shaking her mangled hair out of its pigtails and running a hand through it. Curiously, she turned on the car light, pulling out the note from her new box of goodies. 

“Cute Ladybug Shop Girl,

I’m sorry I never asked for you name. I’m even sorrier that I said what I said to you. It was…well it was douchey. A friend dared me to, and I said if I did that he wasn’t allowed to give any more dares, but that’s not an excuse and I’m really sorry. I didn’t know what kind of monkey bread you liked, so here’s a couple different ones! I hope at least one of them is okay.

Um, again I’m really sorry. When you yelled at me, well it was really impressive and I totally deserved it and just, I’m sorry. Here’s my number, in case you might forgive me enough for me to apologize fully in person. If you want, you can even slap me. I’d totally deserve it.

-Adrien Agreste”

Marinette stared at the note in utter astonishment. Agreste. Adrien Agreste. Oh god, she’d yelled at Adrien Agreste. Even worse, she’d told Adrien Fucking Gabriel Agreste’s Son, Aka The Fashion Designer Marinette Most Looked Up To, Agreste she was on her period. She’d called him a fuckboy!

Marinette groaned, letting her head hit the steering wheel in absolute horror and embarrassment. She’d yelled at Adrien Agreste, and somehow ended up with his phone number and an offer for a date.

Was it a date? No, it had to just be Adrien being polite, wanting to apologize again as he had said. There’s no way Adrien Agreste, one of the most famous teenage models coveted by her girlfriends, wanted a date with her, the girl who cared far less about the faces in her magazines and far more about what they were wearing. She hadn’t even recognized him! No, it couldn’t be a date.

Marinette chewed the inside of her cheek, her face flushing red even at the thought. He’d called her impressive. More than that, he’d called her cute!

Marinette shook her head, putting her car in reverse and slowly starting to make her way home. It was too late to deal with this shit, she was exhausted and would just end up doing something she regretted.

If she ended up adding a contact into her phone, no one needed to know. If the next morning, she texted said number with, “Hey, this is Marinette, the girl from Lucky Find who yelled at you last night,” well, that, only Alya needed to know.

And eventually her parents when she brought him home after Adrien had confessed he’d never had a chocolate crossaint. 

And maybe the entirety of Instagram after Adrien posted on of their selfies the next week with a #cutestgfever. 

But no one else.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is totally based off of an actual thing that happened to me, except the boy wasn't a sweetheart who then brought me food, he just apologized and ran off. But seriously fuck retail and fuck tourists.


End file.
